Rumours may have reached you of
my imminent demise.
They're largely true, the eyes
of Don Quixote's every love
look down and almost see my flask
of wine, beer, whisky, rum,
fuel that helped me come
this far, where bells now lift my mask.
May cancer not say otherwise,
dead too in the coffin,
a lump that hurt often.
Soon we will sever all our ties;
re-enter mother's womb
there where you see a tomb.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem